


Lamb to the Slaughter

by silvereyedotaku



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/M, Family Secrets, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Tony Stark, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-06-18 09:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15482508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvereyedotaku/pseuds/silvereyedotaku
Summary: When Peter Parker’s parents pass away, he's sent to live with his reclusive godfather, Tony Stark, in the middle of nowhere.The days seem to stretch out into nothingness, but as time passes, he becomes drawn to the hushed village and forests surrounding the house, ignoring the ominous warnings from those around him.He'll live to regret not listening.





	1. You are a stranger here, why have you come?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is dedicated to Vlad, aka @anthony-mackerel on tumblr, and inspired by [this moodboard](https://anthony-mackerel.tumblr.com/post/175790131787/starkships-were-meant-to-fly-requested-by)
> 
> Title from [Blood /// Water by grandson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sk-U8ruIQyA)

Peter shifted uncomfortably in the tiny plastic seat, the hard curves digging into his hips through his jeans. Three hours of being stuck in the same position hadn’t made it any more manageable. He leaned his head against the bus window, angling himself carefully so his glasses didn’t get in the way.

The scene outside had remained the same for the last hour and a half, despite the bus speeding over miles of land. As far as the eye could see was green - rolling fields and forest, everything covered in a thick white fog. The fog seemed to twist the scenery, so much so that at one point Peter convinced himself that there was a person in every field they passed, watching the bus, which was obviously ridiculous. Peter wondered what he would do here, where colours seemed like muted imitations of the bright hues back home.

Yesterday, when the train had pulled out of New York City, Peter had been overcome with a desperate, uncontrollable sadness. He’d watched with a clenched chest as the city he grew up in passed by in a blur.

Here and there, he’d caught glimpses of places he’d visited himself - the publishing firm tower block he used to pass on the way to school; the McDonald’s he’d been to on the way home from the Met; the park with the creaky old swing set he’d played on as a kid.

He’d fought back tears when he realised he’d never get to visit them again.

It had come as a shock, a sharp spike of pain after weeks of involuntary numbness. After his parents’ deaths, Peter had felt nothing. It just hadn’t seemed real, even after the police found the bodies, swaying side-by-side in the forest on the outskirts of West Virginia. Watching news reports about the double hanging had only made it seem more removed from reality.

Hearing his name on television had thoroughly convinced him it was all a sick dream he hadn’t woken up from yet.

He had watched news anchors and grief counsellors,  _complete_ _strangers_ ,get choked up at the idea of his situation, yet his body refusing to produce even a tear. It was like everyone around him was breaking apart whilst he remained untouched by the grief that struck anyone who heard his story.

The investigation photos had been leaked to the press after the media took an interest, and soon people from all over New York were gawking at the gory details in pseudo-sympathy.

In the face of his story splashed across the front cover of every tabloid in the city, he ended up missing the tactful, sad news reports, with their soft lighting and cleverly-placed boxes of tissues. It didn't matter that they were frustrating - at least they hadn't made him into a sick semi-celebrity.

He'd been stopped on the street once, by a man he'd never seen before, waving a flashing camera in his face. Peter didn't remember the exchange too clearly. He'd been too occupied fighting down bile rising at the back of his throat to process the man's explanation about his horror blog.

He had tried to make himself cry, stared at the pallid faces of the people who raised him until his head hurt, but he couldn’t summon any emotion beyond apathy. He’d pictured his mom and dad going out into the woods, taking the rope and tying the nooses - putting it around their own necks, knowing he was waiting back home.

He’d recovered old home movies and watched them play with him as a chubby baby. It evoked nothing, except the faint sense of embarrassment he usually felt seeing his younger self. That was the worst part, actually. His parents were _gone_ and all his mind could focus on was how dumb he looked in a dinosaur bucket hat.

The bus juddered, bringing Peter back to reality.

At that moment, he was glad he was the only passenger, his thoughts so intense he was sure anyone in close vicinity would hear them.

When the last passenger asides from him had shuffled off the bus about forty minutes ago, he’d figured the driver would allow awkwardness to settle over them.

But the driver seemed perfectly happy, puffing away on an old fashioned cigar and listening to the patchy radio describing local fox hunting. It was curious how the smoke never seemed to mingle with the wisps of fog intruding from a window near the front of the vehicle. Every time the driver coughed out a cloud of grey, the tendrils seemed to retreat, before returning to their original places.

Peter watched, hypnotised, as this strange movement continued. 

His mind wandered. He tried to picture his future in a place like this, and came up blank. It was difficult for him to imagine anyone wanting to live here.

His thoughts drifted to when the lawyers had first told him that he was expected to leave New York City to live with a man he’d never met - Tony Stark, Peter’s father’s best friend once upon a time, and Peter’s lawful godfather. The lawyers had then revealed that train tickets and bus fares had already been booked, as they told him the exact address and travel instructions would be forwarded to him via email before he left.

His parents hadn’t even written him a goodbye, yet had found time to forward a document detailing all of this to their lawyers.

He was so engrossed in his memories that he didn’t even notice that the bus had stopped until the busdriver announced, “Arrived at Beggar’s End,” at the top of his lungs.

Peter checked outside the window, gathering his stuff. They’d pulled into an old-fashioned rail station, the traditional, non-electric kind. In front of the old railway line was a platform, and on it, a bus-stop with ‘Beggar’s End, Stop Here’ written on it in loopy white writing. Peter assumed it had been repurposed as a busway after technology moved on from the nineteenth century.

He made his way past the empty seats, passing the bus driver, who took his cigar out of his mouth and opened the doors.

Immediately, fog flooded into the bus, so swiftly Peter almost took a step back. It felt very, very cloying, even if it was totally harmless. The driver pointed his cigar in the direction of the door, coughing as he took another pull and blew it back out, forcing the fog to retreat a little. “Out you get, lad.”

Peter stepped off the bus, dragging his suitcase behind him. He took in the station around him, shivering slightly in his loose jacket.

It was probably beautiful at a time, but the years had dulled the painted benches, and worn away the cursive on the timetable. The only distinguishable words that remained were those on the bus-stop label. It unnerved Peter, who was wearing scuffed converse and a Knicks hoodie. He felt out of place, like an unwelcome intruder on a landmark from the past.

Peter turned back to face the driver. “Thanks for the ride.”

The bus driver smiled a nearly toothless grin at him. “You’re welcome, son.”

Peter peered at the mist-shrouded map next to the station timetable. “Do you know where I can find the Stark Manor? It’s supposed to be north of Withersgate”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” the older man scratched his head, tone apologetic.

Peter shrugged. “S’alright. I’ll find my way. Thanks again.”

The driver nodded. “Just be careful not to get lost, alright? You know what they say about young folk who lose their way round here.”

“Wha-” The bus doors slid closed, and the driver revved the engine, the bus driving away into the mist.

Peter stared after it, dread building in his stomach. His imagination was kicking into overdrive, trying to figure out what that could mean. He glanced around him, paranoia rushing through him - he _hoped_ that was all it was. The thought of the fears being not so irrational and baseless was the scariest part.

Peter tried to slow his pounding heart. Maybe a few minutes ago, he would have welcomed the intensity of the feeling, but standing alone in an abandoned rail station, the images the man’s words were bringing to life seemed far too real.

And the _silence_. Peter had no idea how he hadn’t noticed it when he’d first stepped off the bus. He couldn’t even hear the retreating bus, the fog swallowing up its sound as soon as it was out of sight. The only noise around was Peter’s increasingly fast breaths. It was disquieting.

The mist wasn’t as overpowering as it initially had been on the bus. In fact, it didn’t seem to be touching him at all.

A loose stone sent Peter stumbling, dropping his bag. He flinched at the too-loud sound of his weighty suitcase hitting the floor and bent down to pick it up.

He grabbed the case’s handle, and began to get up, before pausing. He looked down at his clothes and sniffed. Just as he’d suspected, he reeked of cigar smoke, the smell floating heavily around him like a thick, second skin. He wrinkled his nose, getting to his feet with the retrieved bag. He had to find Withersgate. Everything else could be sorted out after that.

He steeled himself and stepped forward, the fog seeming to part before him, allowing him a clear pathway.

\---

The village was mostly deserted when Peter got there, using his intuition and a lot of luck. It was almost as quiet as the train station, but occasionally he’d hear the patter of footsteps in the distance, out of his sight. The stillness was probably just because of the time. Peter checked his digital watch, noting that it was only just five in the morning.

He struggled forwards, suitcase in tow. Two days of travelling without a break had left him exhausted, but he soldiered on. Something in his head was telling him not to stop.

He glanced back at the fog. It was still keeping its distance.

“Huh.” Peter said out loud, then grimaced as he realised his mistake. The short exclamation echoed around the empty street, unforgivingly loud. He winced, looking behind him for any disturbance in the mist. Everything was still, thank God. Peter didn’t know what he would do if anything moved.

He paused, listening out for the distant footsteps to resume, but nothing came; they seemed to have stopped entirely. Peter ignored the hairs rising on the back of his neck at the thought of why.

He carried on walking, until the number of houses started to dwindle and the path began to narrow, becoming more overgrown by the minute. More than once, he tripped on tree roots invading the walkway, and batted away sharp branches emerging unexpectedly from the mist. By the time he reached the end of the pathway, his hands were covered in scratches, and his knees were aching from multiple knocks.

He jumped when a large signpost loomed out of the fog. He set his case down and squinted at it. It only had two arms, one pointing straight on and one pointing sharply to the right. It was wobbly at the base, and looked like it was one shove away from falling, but that wasn’t what fascinated Peter.

The arm that pointed straight on was completely blank. The words hadn’t been scratched or worn away, or painted over, there was just nothing there. Peter reached up with curious fingers to feel it, finding it smooth and undecorated. Without thinking, his feet began to carry him in the direction the arm was pointing.

All previous fear vanished as he trudged forwards. Something irresistible was pulling him towards whatever the signpost pointed to, and he moved without thought. He didn’t need his parents, he didn’t need his parents’ lawyers, he didn’t need a godfather...

Peter felt a spark of recognition at the thought of a godfather. He went to grasp his case and found his fingers empty. _What was he doing_?

He forced his feet to a standstill, and turned back to where he’d been standing. The mist had swallowed most of the signpost, but he could still see the blurry outline of it. It was worryingly far away, and Peter was unsettled at the idea of him walking that distance without consciousness.

He strode determinedly back to his previous position and picket his case up off the floor. It felt damper than it had when Peter had been holding it.

He cautiously regarded the signpost again, focusing on the right-pointing arm. It read ‘Stark Manor’ in neat black lettering.

Peter heaved a relieved sigh at the thought of finally reaching his destination. He checked his watch, the glowing red numbers telling him it was nearing six in the morning.

He started following the path’s dramatic right, hoping that soon he’d be able to close his eyes and rest.

\---

When the trees first parted, revealing the Stark Manor, Peter couldn’t believe his eyes.

It appeared through the fog gradually, a vague shape slowly revealing a high, terraced roof and pointed towers, filling out into balconies and archways, all preceded by a twisted, wrought iron gate. It looked like something from a fairytale, and it utterly stunned Peter.

He walked up to the gate, every second the details getting clearer every second. Through the bars of the gate, he could now see a stone courtyard, broken up by plots of grass and untrimmed hedges. Out of the small gardens rose more leaf-bare trees, obscuring the front of the manor from view.

Peter pushed lightly on the gate, not seeing any kind of padlock, and it swung open with a loud creak. He stepped through and guided it back into its original place, hinges whining. He groaned quietly when the noise set a group of birds aflight from their perches in the trees outside the gate. The flapping off their wings was amplified by tenfold, and Peter half-expected the sound to set off some sort of bigger reaction.

Up close, he could see imperfections not visible from outside the gate. The bricks of the third story were yellowed with age, and there were tiles missing from the roof. At the very top of the house, the ornately detailed spires were chipped in places, and the right-facing balcony supports were crumbling. Still, it took Peter’s breath away.

He walked through the courtyard, steps echoing on the hard floor. He passed the squares of grass and the trees, making his way to the front door. He dropped his case on the doorstep and reached for the silver knocker, before hesitating. The back of his neck was prickling, like he was being watched.

He swiveled around cautiously, and almost had a heart attack when he saw where the sensation was coming from.

There, on the lawn, was a statue of a man, hands clasped together in prayer. The statue’s posture was relaxed, but the expression on his face was hauntingly unreadable. His eyebrows were drawn together, face tilted upwards and mouth open. It was like a terrifying mixture of euphoria and pure agony. It was _horrible_.

And even with his head tipped back to the heavens, Peter felt like the eyes were following him whenever he moved - like he shouldn’t turn his back to it. He backed slowly up the porch steps, eyes fixed on the statue. He groped blindly behind him for the door knocker, and slammed it against the door as many times as he could. He waited, holding his breath, for any kind of response.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the door opened behind him. His eyes were automatically drawn away from the statue, refocusing on the doorway. In it stood a handsome, dark-haired man in his late forties - bare-faced, except for the slight dark shadow around his jawline and down-turned lips. He was bleary-eyed, as if he’d just woken up, but dressed like he was heading to the office, in a white shirt, black tie and pressed trousers.

They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. When it became clear that the man didn’t intend to speak without prompting, Peter decided he had to be the first to talk.

“Are you Tony Stark?” he asked, cringing internally when his voice cracked.

The man considered Peter for a moment more before nodding. “Peter Parker, I assume.” he said, voice husky.

Peter muttered a conformation, picking his suitcase up off the floor. Thoughts of the statue on the lawn had fled to the back of his mind, where they seemed like the fancies of a stupid child - which he supposed they were.

He looked up to find Tony regarding him with furrowed eyebrows. An uncomfortable second passed, before Tony reached across him and took the case from his hands without words.

Peter blinked. “Mr Stark, you really don’t have to-”

Tony quietened him with a simple hand gesture. “It’s fine. Close the door,” he instructed, in that same gravelly voice.

Peter grabbed the handle and pulled the door shut, shoulders already feeling lighter after hours of lugging the suitcase around.

“Thank you,” he said belatedly, cracking his neck and relishing in the sensation of relieving his aching joints.

“Don’t mention it.” Tony replied. He began to lead the way down the corridor, carrying Peter’s case effortlessly.

Peter followed a few steps behind. It was too dark to properly gage his surroundings, but he spotted two paintings as big as him and a crystal chandelier hanging above them. This house truly was unreal.

They rounded the corner and climbed the staircase in silence.

They stopped outside a navy-painted door near the top of the stairs. Tony pushed the door open and set the suitcase on a side-table next to the door. In the centre of the room, there was a plush, red velvet couch, with sheets and a pillow folded on top of it.

“You’ll have to stay here until the bedroom upstairs is ready,” Tony told him apologetically.

Peter wanted to tell him that here was absolutely fine, but his eyelids were drooping and all he wanted was to do was sleep, so he settled on a nod, drifting towards the sofa. Everything else could wait.

“I’ll let you get some rest, then.” Tony said, voice hushed.

Peter didn’t even bother unfolding the sheets, just collapsed on the couch. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this, please do leave a comment and/or kudos :) They're fantastic motivation,,


	2. Lift me higher, let me look at the sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments & kudos!! I don't reply cos i have a big mouth and tend to give away fic spoilers, but i read and love EVERY SINGLE ONE. Please, leave one if you are enjoying this!

Tony paced back and forth in his bedroom. The sun was not yet up, but he’d already accepted that he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. The dim morning light trickling through the windows prevented that. 

The first thing that had struck him when he’d opened the door was how much the boy resembled his father. Peter had the same strong jawline and high-set forehead as Richard, with Mary’s pretty brown eyes and upturned nose. It was jarring seeing the features of his old friends after all these years. It didn’t help that Peter was wearing the exact style of glasses Richard used to have. Tony wondered if he knew. 

When he’d first heard about their deaths, he’d broken down. He’d sat alone in the dark for days, drifting in and out of consciousness, drowning his sorrows in liquor any time he found the strength to haul himself out of bed. It was just like after his parents’ deaths; only this time he didn’t have Rhodey to put him back together again.

His knees gave way and he sank down onto his bed. It was unmade, the sheets hadn’t been washed in weeks, and there was a dirty suit jacket hanging off the bedpost. He buried his head in his hands. He didn’t know what he was going to do with a child wandering around the house. 

His foot clinked against something on the floor. He looked down to find a half-empty bottle next to his bed. Red-hot guilt coursed through his system as he remembered he’d been drinking from it last night. He’d sworn to himself that he’d stop when the kid arrived.

He hoped that Peter hadn’t been able to smell the alcohol on his breath when he’d opened the door.

Peter was so much younger than what had he expected. He knew Peter was a teenager - even if he didn’t know the exact number - but he looked about  _ fourteen _ , without a pound of fat on his bones. It scared Tony how breakable he looked, like if someone grabbed him too hard, he’d shatter or snap in half. It scared him even more that he saw a little of himself in this skinny, lost-eyed kid, pulling a suitcase as big as him.

He internally shook himself. He was thinking selfishly. He hadn’t even considered how Peter must be feeling, staying in a place he didn’t know, with a man he’d never had a conversation with. Tony couldn’t even imagine how anxious he must feel.

This revelation called to mind Peter’s face when he had opened the door. 

The boy had been facing away from him, staring at something in the front gardens, but when he’d turned around his face had been painted with barely-concealed terror. Tony hadn’t noticed at the time - too busy drinking in the sight of Peter and dealing with the subsequent waves of familiarity - but thinking back, the kid had looked like he’d seen something unspeakable. 

Without warning, Tony’s head throbbed violently, and he flopped onto the pillow with a groan. The silk sheets offered a little relief and he pulled them over his head in the futile pursuit of comfort. He tossed and turned for a minute before shoving them off him frustratedly, with such a force they slid off the mattress, mixing with the piles of dirty clothes on the floor. 

He needed to set out Peter’s permanent bedroom upstairs. He’d do it in the evening, he told himself. It hadn’t seemed like an issue - the boy looked like he would have slept on the floor, he was so tired - but Tony felt he had to. It was the least he could do, after what Peter had been through.

It wasn’t just the exhaustion though. When Tony had directed him to the sofa, Peter had looked genuinely pleased. When they were walking there, Peter was taking in the interior of the hallway in awe, despite most of it being shrouded in darkness. He’d gasped aloud, albeit quietly, when they passed the portraits hanging on the left wall. 

Tony had grown so accustomed to the old-fashioned extravagance of the house, he’d forgotten what it was like to be a newcomer, seeing it all for the first time. He’d lived there so long he’d nearly forgotten the layout of his parents’ house. Nearly - try as he might, he still couldn’t fully erase it from his memory. 

He hoped Peter would grow used to the manor as well. 

Sighing, he rolled onto his back in the bed, still fully clothed. He stared at the ceiling vacantly. It was a simple painting of a blond woman reclining by a river in the middle of the forest; perfect, except for a splash of discolouration in the corner from where Tony had thrown a bottle of wine at it. His fingers came up to his collar, feeling the scar where a shard of the glass had bounced off and hit him.

He threw an arm over his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at the painting anymore. He lay there, motionless, pretending he could get back to sleep.

\---

The sun was fully up by about midday. Tony was flicking through the daily paper. It was boring, but he took enjoyment in the monotony of reading about the village pepper sales. 

He was sitting in the conservatory, taking in the view of the back garden and the light shining through the outside summer-house’s stained glass windows. He absentmindedly admired the rainbow shapes dancing on the grass.

He was about to take a sip of his coffee when he heard a thumping somewhere in the house. Peter was awake. The thumping continued, followed by a loud bang. Tony turned around in his chair, peering through the doorways of the three rooms behind him, so he could just catch a glimpse of the stairs. He’d have to speak to the boy about being more careful 

Peter stumbled into eyeshot, wearing a faded red t-shirt and jeans. He looked shaken, his face dark pink. Tony watched as he stepped forward hesitantly, unsure of where to go, before turning and going in the completely wrong direction.

It only took a minute for Peter to realise he’d gone wrong, and get back to the bottom of the stairs. This time he did spot Tony sitting and staring at him fumble. Tony got to his feet as the boy walked towards him. He was barefoot on the hardwood floor, his feet squeaking against it.

“Mr Stark, good morning,” Peter said, as he reached where Tony stood.

“Peter.” Tony addressed him, holding out his hand. The boy stared at it blankly for a moment, before the realisation dawned. They shook hands, Peter’s grip a lot stronger than what he’d expected. “It’s nice to properly meet you.”

Peter nodded. “Your house is beautiful,” he said, sincerity clear in his tone.

“Thank you,” Tony replied, and he meant it. He respected those who could appreciate good architecture and interior design. “Did you sleep alright?”

“I did, yeah.” Peter told him. The blush was fading, but there was still a dusting of pink over each cheekbone, made all the more visible by the boy’s pale skin.

“Your real bedroom will be ready by tonight,” Tony said, looking away. 

“Okay.” Peter said,  As he turned his head to the side, Tony caught a glimpse of a nasty scratch across his jaw, and another on his forehead. 

“What happened to your face?” he asked, worry evident in his voice.

Peter’s hands flew to his cheek, confused. “I don’t- You mean the scratches?”

The urge to roll his eyes overpowered the concern churning in Tony’s stomach. “Yes, I mean the scratches. What happened?” 

Peter shrugged sheepishly. “The trees on the way here had really low-hanging branches.”

Tony stared at him disbelievingly. “You didn’t think to duck when you saw them?”

“N-no!” Peter stuttered,  affronted . “I couldn’t see through all the fog. It was everywhere, I could barely see my own hands.” 

Tony tensed. “Alright,” he said. “Do you need any medical supplies?”

“I’m fine, I think they’ve all healed.” Peter said. “But thank you,” he added quickly, shifting from foot to foot. He seemed impatient

“Do you have any plans for the afternoon?” Tony asked, glancing down at his fidgeting feet. They immediately stilled, Peter looking embarrassed again.

“I was thinking of looking around the house,” Peter admitted.

A shot of fear raced through Tony’s veins. He was pretty sure that none of the rooms that needed to be locked were. “Why don’t you explore Withersgate instead?”

Peter tilted his head to the side, considering the proposal. “I mean, I guess.”

“Just be back by five o’clock. Dinner’s at seven, but you’ll probably need some more time to sort through your stuff.” Tony advised. “And be careful, okay? Don’t get lost.”

Peter looked at him confused. “Okay…” 

Tony forced a smile and settled back in his chair. “Have a nice time,” he called over his shoulder. Peter mumbled his thanks, walking away.

Tony watched the boy climb the stairs out of the corner of his eye, and waited until he returned, with socks and shoes in hand, and a jacket over his arm. Peter made eye-contact with him through the doorways and gave an awkward little wave. 

A few minutes later, Tony heard the front door slam. He sagged in his chair, before getting up reluctantly. 

He needed to find the set of masterkeys before the boy returned.

\---

Peter wrapped the jacket tighter around him, pulling the manor door shut. It was colder outside than he’d anticipated. 

He thought back to Tony’s warning. It was eerily reminiscent of what the busdriver had told him before speeding away into the fog. 

Speaking of which, the blanket of mist that had coated the manor yesterday were completely gone, replaced with muted sunshine. The sky was still nowhere near the vivid blue it was in New York City - it was very light, more white than blue, and obscured by bundles of grey clouds. But it was enough to lift his spirits. Peter stepped out with more bounce in his step than he’d had in a while.

He glanced across the lawn at the praying statue. It looked less menacing than it had last night; the expression on its face was almost peaceful, no trace of the anguish he’d seen previously. Without fear blurring his vision he could appreciate the exquisite details that had gone into making it. The man looked so alive, like he could blink or clasp his hands tighter, and it would seen absolutely natural. 

Peter shuddered at the thought, pulling open the metal gate. He yelped and pulled away as he felt something prick his hand. He felt a rush of heat blooming in his palm, and looked down to find blood welling out of a deep cut. 

Inspecting the gate revealed that what had spiked Peter had been an unusually large chunk of rust. Peter spent several minutes trying to pick it off with his fingernails. When this yielded little success, he gave up and kicked the gate shut, a little harder than necessary out of spite. Without thinking about it, he wiped the blood on his jeans, before cursing. He had no idea when he’d be able to get them washed next. 

He looked down at his hand; it was still bleeding profusely. The gate had cut him deep, and without intervention it was just going to continue bleeding. He made a split-second decision, bundling it in the inside of his t-shirt. He squeezed it, hoping to stem the blood flow. 

Just as it began to show through the front of the shirt, the flow slowed and then stopped. Peter let out a hiss of pain as he removed his hand, keeping it clenched so the bleeding didn’t start again. He’d need to get that looked at when he got home. But he didn’t want to go back straight away - that felt like admitting defeat. 

He strolled down the path leading to the manor, ducking the clearly-visible branches. Tony had been sweet to fret over the scratches on his face. He had seemed legitimately worried and Peter couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty for having made him feel that way. 

Peter continued down the path, picking his way through the tree roots. The path was a lot easier to navigate in broad daylight, and he found the journey from the manor back to the main path was much faster. Soon he was nearing the spot where he’d seen the signpost. He got closer, stooping to avoid a random twig, getting ready to take the turning.

He stopped short. 

The sign wasn’t blank anymore. 

Where previously been a clear  slate of wood, was a single word. 

“ Bjōrnage, ” he said aloud, stunned.

He waited for the alluring sensation to set in, but he felt nothing except bewilderment. The entire situation was baffling. Had it been his imagination? No, he’d ran his fingers over it, and felt the untouched wood. Last night, the sign had been blank, he was sure of it.

“What the hell…” he breathed, still staring up at it. He reached out to touch the letters, but before he could make contact, his fingers began to sting intensely. He let out a gasp, wrenching his hand away. The hurt faded, and Peter stared at the sign, puzzled. 

He considered reaching for it again, but thought better of it. It was probably best not to tempt fate. He turned left, down the main path, determined not to look back. 

His resolve cracked after three minutes of walking. Peter twisted his head and nearly choked. There was a large shadow moving along the treeline, barely visible. Peter rubbed his eyes in  disbelief , checking again to find the dark figure gone. He stepped backwards, suddenly tense.

He took off into a brisk walk, edging into a jog. He was wasting time - Tony had seemed pretty serious about the five o’clock curfew.

It took a good hour to get into the village, by which point Peter was out of breath and panting raggedly, despite having taken several rest breaks. He wished he’d taken a bottle of water with him.

As he neared the town square, he noted the sparsely-packed houses that had been invisible yesterday. They were a curious mix of modern and traditional design, with brick walls and thatched hay roofs. Peter had to pinch himself to check he wasn’t dreaming when he saw that - this was an indubitably different world to the city.

Withersgate was an entirely different place when the sun was up. It couldn’t hold a candle to the crowds of New York, but the square was still bustling with people. Peter dodged a group of old women carrying fruit, and sat down on a bench in front of a little flower shop. He took in the scene.

There was an enormous fountain in the centre, a daintily perched cherub, poised to shoot an arrow, and spitting water in an impressive arc to land in the fountain bed . Peter could see the glint of coins through the moving water lapping at the sides. Facing the fountain was a butcher’s, a bakery and the florist’s Peter was sitting outside of. 

He twisted in his seat, peeking into the shop. The entire display was covered in sunflowers, the glass reflecting the bright colours to cast a warm, yellow glow over him. It strangely calmed him, and he felt more content than he’d been in weeks. Bathed in yellow and staring out at the only shops for miles around, he felt at peace. Withersgate was a million miles from the grimy, ever-changing, beautiful streets of New York City, but he was beginning to see its appeal. 

Next to the bakery, there stood a folding sign, advertising a fruit and vegetables market around the corner. Peter would have to stop off there on the way home. Maybe he could bring Tony some fresh fruit to win his favour. Peter didn’t want his time in the manor to be awkward.

His godfather still seemed to be subtly keeping him at arm's length. It was disheartening.

Peter drew his mind away from worries about living arrangements. His eyes drifted towards a man on the other side of the square, walking towards the fountain with a confident stride. He was very handsome, with blond hair and impressively broad shoulders, but the expression on his face was troubled, perfectly-sculpted eyebrows drawn into a frown. 

The man stopped at the edge of the water, pulling a coin out of his pocket. He flicked it in the air a few times, before tossing it into the water and squeezing his eyes shut to make a wish. Peter was entranced, watching the man’s every movement. 

Without warning, the man looked up, making direct eye contact with him. Peter’s stomach flipped over, and he felt blood rushing to his cheeks. His eyes darted awkwardly elsewhere, watching customers in the butchery paying for their cuts of meat. 

When he looked back, the man had turned around and was making his way out of the square. Peter craned to see where the man was headed, but a middle-aged married couple blocked his view, stepping up to throw their pennies into the fountain. When they moved, the man was already gone. Peter slumped in his seat, disappointed. 

He watched people milling around the fountain for a few moments more. The calm he’d felt before had disappeared, along with the mysterious man. Instead of relaxing and letting himself become part of the scenery,  he felt like what he’d seen before was wrong, like he had been looking around with gold-tinted glasses, and was only just seeing the village for what it really was.  

He settled back on the bench, trying to place the feeling growing in his stomach. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out what it was. 

Then it hit him. He hadn’t seen anyone under twenty the entire time he’d been there. The blond man by the fountain had been the youngest person he’d seen so far, and even he’d looked to be in his mid-to-late twenties. There were no children, anywhere. 

Peter shivered, suddenly feeling watched. He thought he felt the burn of eyes boring into him, but when he checked, everyone seemed to be minding their own business. 

He got out of his seat abruptly, unwilling to stay in the town square any longer. He was walking towards the folding sign before his brain could process it, following where the drawn-on arrow pointed.

He took off down the left path, running a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes. The path curved gently to the right, revealing market stalls stacked with a rainbow of fruit and vegetables. This part of town was far less busy than the square, with only a few people wandering around. Peter felt less watched here. He strolled over the uneven cobblestones of the courtyard, towards the first stall, which seemed to be selling lettuce, potatoes and carrots. 

He was about to ask for the price of the carrots, when he tripped on a loose stone. He failed to  steady himself  on the stall front and the money in his jacket scattered across the floor as he hit the ground. 

Peter let out a pained groan, scrambling to pick up the coins. He managed to find all of them and shove them back in his pocket before he died of embarrassment. He leapt to his feet, dusting off his front and turning back towards the stall, before colliding with someone, hard.

He stumbled, but a strong, steadying hand on his arm prevented another fall. Peter started to apologise, but the words stuck in his throat as he looked up at the person’s face. It was the man from the fountain.

“Are you alright?” the man asked, his voice a soothing baritone. Peter nodded slowly, his other hand coming to rest involuntarily on the man’s chest. 

The blond man glanced down between them, eyes widening at Peter’s hand. “Hey, you’re bleeding pretty heavily. Are you sure you’re okay?” 

Peter looked down at his hand, snatching it away when he realised it was spilling blood all over the man’s blue shirt. The cut he’d gotten on the manor gate must have reopened from the impact with the ground. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin your shirt-”

The man shook his head firmly. “Don’t apologise, you’re the one who’s hurt. I should be saying sorry to you.”

Peter was at a bit of a loss for words. He settled with smiling at the man, trying not to look into his eyes too long. They were so blue it looked like he was wearing contacts. He flushed when he noticed the man’s hand was still gripping his arm. 

“Do you need a bandage?” the man asked, smiling back. 

Peter considered it. “Yeah, I think so. But I couldn’t see a doctor’s office when I got here.”

“Oh, there isn’t one,” the man dismissed. “But I can still fix you up if you want.”

Peter watched as the man pulled a roll of gauze out of his bag. “Yes, please.” The man led him to a large wooden box next to one of the stalls, and sat him down on it. 

Peter opened his mouth to thank him, but began stammering when the man knelt down casually in front of him, and took Peter’s hand in his own. The man turned it so it was facing palm-up, then slowly wrapped the cloth around it once, then twice. Peter winced when the man brushed against the wound.

“I’m Steve, by the way,” the man told him in between looping the bandage around his thumb. 

“I’m Peter.” Peter said. Steve nodded his acknowledgment, and they settled into comfortable silence. Peter tried not to go too red when Steve brought the cloth up to his mouth, tearing off how much more he needed. 

Peter realised he was staring into Steve’s eyes again. He mentally reprimanded himself.

Steve lifted Peter’s hand, tying the gauze in a knot to prevent it from falling off.

“Why are you carrying bandages around?” Peter blurted out, if only to distract himself from staring.

“I was a boy scout,” Steve revealed, patting Peter’s hand and standing up. “I’m always prepared.”

Peter had to fight the clenching in his chest at how cute that was. He got off the box, checking out the dressing. “Th- Thank you.”

Steve waved away his gratitude, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it. That’s not going to last though, you’re going to have to get some other supplies.

Peter cocked his head to the side. “I thought you said there wasn’t a doctor’s.”

“You have to buy them at the next town over. It’s about twenty miles east from here.” Steve described, pointing east. Peter doubted Tony would ever let him travel that far away. 

His worry must have shown on his face because Steve chuckled, patting him on the head. “If you want, I can just redress it next time you’re around here.”

“You would do that?” Peter’s voice was thick with disbelief, but Steve just shrugged. 

“It’s no big deal. But I’ve been meaning to ask, you’re new around here, right? Where are you staying?”

A tiny voice in his head screamed at him to not even consider telling this stranger where he lived. A bigger part of him was won over by Steve’s strong jawline and kind manners. “I’m living in the Stark manor.” he heard himself say. “I just got here this morning.”

Steve nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. How come you’re living over there, though?”

“Mr Stark is my godfather.” Peter said, the tiny voice getting louder and louder. “He’s my guardian, until I turn eighteen in two years. I’m living with him because my parents passed away a few weeks ago.”

Steve’s eyes went as round as dinner plates. “Your parents just died?”

It felt wrong talking about it in such frank terms, but Peter murmured his agreement, watching Steve’s reactions carefully. 

“Peter.” Steve looked at least three shades paler than he had been a second ago. “What’s your last name?”

“Parker.” Peter told him, the tiny, rational voice letting out a cacophony of curses. 

He expected a dramatic reaction, but Steve just nodded, his face returning to its original colour. “Okay. I have to go now, but I’ll see you again soon.”

“Oh. Bye,” Peter said, trying to hide his disappointment at the news of Steve’s imminent departure. 

Steve smiled, turning to leave. “See you around, Peter Parker,” he called over his shoulder. 

Peter fought the urge to bury his face in his hands as soon as Steve was out of sight. He looked down at his newly-bandaged hand. 

The flashing numbers on his watch caught his eye and he swore as he realised it was a couple of minutes to five. 

“Damn it,” he groaned aloud without thinking. A woman manning the nearest stall glared at him and he stuttered an apology, checking the dressing wrapped around his thumb was secure. He rolled his shoulders and set off at a quick pace, sneakers pounding against the cobblestones. There was no way he was going to get back in time.    

He’d revisit the market another time, he promised himself, racing back towards the town square. For a peace offering, possibly, if Tony was especially angry with him for missing the curfew. 

He narrowly avoided crashing into a group of senior citizens gathered around the fountain. Their eyes followed him as he ran past, until he disappeared from sight. 

He would come back again to see Steve too, he thought, to redress his injury. And to talk - Peter was filled with curiosity at the bizarre way their conversation had ended.

Right now, though, he had to get home to Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve/Peter is criminally underrated, so here I am, having to make my own content lmao.
> 
> Just a btw, if anyone is thinking of making something for this fic, pleASE do it!! I would cry and then probably die.


	3. Once I hear them clearly say

Tony fiddled with the embroidery on the arm of his chair, staring at the front door. He picked at the gold stitching anxiously. It was less than an hour until dinner, and Peter was nowhere to be found.

He rubbed his eyes, a mixture of worry and irritation mingling in his head. He had very clearly specified that five was the decided-upon curfew, and yet here he was, listening to the heavy ticks of the grandfather clock in the hall, past six o’clock.

Maybe, a tentative, hopeful voice in his head whispered, Peter was doing this deliberately, acting out to get Tony’s attention.

He recalled going through something similar before _and_ after his parents died. He couldn’t be reasoned with, throwing all his previous vague interests out of the window to pursue a life of sneaking into shady, grimy clubs and getting wasted on two shots that dumb college girls would buy him, after a cheesy chat-up line about forgetting his wallet.

It didn’t matter that he could buy out the entire bar if he felt like it, even as a kid; it was the heady feeling that came with knowing he had power over someone, and could make them give him what he thought he wanted. Then later on, in the club’s bathrooms, the girls would give him what he _really_ wanted.

He knew he’d had a baby face, and clearly didn’t look the age it said on his fake ID, but the girls did it anyway. He never understood why.

It was a painful, inescapable cycle that had taken years to break - rebelling against authority, as it were, all the while hoping the authority cared enough to be angry.

When his parents died, that authority had disappeared. He no longer had anything to fight, but he veered further and further off the rails, hoping to prompt some kind of reaction from them - a message from beyond the grave, perhaps. Something echoing his mother’s stern voice, calling him “Anthony,” or the way his father used to glare at him when he behaved embarrassingly at public functions.

Or, when they couldn’t provide him with an answer, frowns and lectures from caregivers and policemen acted as a substitute. It was as good as he was going to get to the real thing.

Maybe Peter was looking for the same kind of thing - a message from his parents, even if it expressed disappointment, or whatever the equivalent would be.

But he didn’t strike Tony as that kind of boy. And if he was going to play the delinquent, you’d think he’d have done it in the city. There wasn’t much to rebel against here, no police stations to vandalise, and no clubs to illegally frequent.

He tries to picture Peter doing any of those things in New York, and came up short. Even this imagined Peter, who threw his parents’ deaths in people’s faces - as Tony once had - wouldn’t take his pain out on other people.

But Tony only met the teenager twice. He didn’t really know Peter’s character, he was just projecting what he wanted to see. He could be perfectly capable of violence and vandalism - the fact was, Tony didn’t have any way of knowing.

Still, Peter had seemed well-mannered and kind. And anyway, if he planned to act out, he’d go further than just skipping a curfew. Tony’s head was buzzing for no reason.

Maybe the layers of obscurities were to cover the alternative, that something had happened to Peter. Tony didn’t know what he’d do with himself if that was the case. He couldn’t let any damage come to Richard’s son. If he got hurt, Tony was responsible.

The possibility of grave injury was fast manifesting itself into a very clear image of Peter, soaked in his own blood, helpless.

Tony shook his head, dispelling the intrusive thought before he could convince himself to go out and search Withersgate from end to end for Peter. There was no reason to think something so terrible had happened. He knew he had to think logically, as the boy’s godfather.

Godfather - the word still didn’t sit quite right on his tongue, felt like a lie.

It was impossible to stomach the fact that he’d become one of the authorities he used to mock, terrorise and irritate.

He looked up to see the grandfather clock’s hands had reached half-past six. Peter was an hour and a half late. That couldn’t be just an accident, or a misguided act of revolt - this was bigger than that. Tony’s heart began to pick up speed as he relieved, in vivid detail, all of the horrific situations Peter could be in. He had to do something, had to-

The front door creaked open ominously. Tony jumped to his feet.

Peter rounded the corner, panting heavily behind the hand clasped to his mouth to quiet the noise. He froze like a deer in headlights when he spotted Tony, staring at him in shock from the corner.

Relief washed over Tony in heady waves. Then, just as quickly, it was replaced by fierce, fiery anger.

“Where were you?” he asked, aware of how harsh his voice is. Peter seemed to sense it too, and had the decency to look apologetic.

He sidled closer to where Tony is sitting, head down. “I’m sorry, Mr Stark, I was looking around and just lost track of time. Sorry.”

“How do you lose track of time for an hour and a half?” Tony ground out through gritted teeth. He was lightheaded.

The explanation was not the one he had expected, but the vagueness annoyed him. After sitting for more than an hour, twiddling his thumbs and staving off all consuming fear, this was the response he got?

“I was in the town square and the fruit market, sightseeing. There weren’t really any clocks around, so I the curfew kind of slipped my mind. I’m sorry,” Peter explained nervously.

“What about this?” Tony shot back, leaning forward in his chair to tap Peter’s wristwatch sharply. “Did you not think to check your _watch_?”

Peter flushed with shame. “I didn’t, no. Not until it was close to five.”

“So let me get this straight. You just chose not to think about the time until you were already late.” Tony knew he was overreacting a little, that the kid hadn’t deliberately ignored the curfew, but he couldn’t stop the flow of words in his frustration. “Did you not spare any thought for what it would be like waiting for you to come back? Or why I set the curfew in the first place?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Peter insisted quietly, fiddling with his jacket.

Tony took a deep breath, calming himself a little. Peter was beginning to close himself off, and if Tony had learnt anything in his many years of life, that would only lead to more conflict. “If you noticed your watch at nearly five, then why are you just getting here? The journey usually only an hour.”

Peter audibly gulped, avoiding all eye contact. “Well, I got distracted, and I also-”

“Oh my god, I don’t want to hear excuses, Peter. You’re better than that. Now, I’ll ask again. Why did a one hour journey take considerably longer?”

“I’m really sorry, Mr Stark, I didn’t realise how long I was taking coming back. I tried running, but my legs started to hurt and I couldn’t breath, so I sat down, but that just wasted more time, and... It won’t happen again, I swear.” Peter sounded on edge. It seemed so unlikely that nothing had happened. Was Peter being dishonest?

Tony’s temper flared again. “Do you think I’m stupid, kid?”

“N-no.” Peter replied. His bottom lip wobbled. Tony’s heart clenched at the sight.

“Then at least tell me the truth.” He tried to soften his voice this time to avoid Peter crying, but it came out in the same incensed way.  

Peter’s expression was bordering on distraught. “I was just caught up in the town, talking to the people. Nothing happened, I promise.”

“Who were you talking to?” Tony demanded, still seated in his chair.

“Just some people I met.” Peter was rooted to the spot, but his tone seemed oddly defensive.

Tony knew the teenager wasn’t telling him everything, but Peter was getting dangerously close to tears, so he decided not to push it. “Dinner will be out in twenty-five minutes, go and freshen up. I expect you on time.”

Peter nodded, finally summoning the nerve to move his feet. He crept out of the room, shucking off his jacket as he went.

Tony watched him go, shaking his head. He’d need to ask about those “people” he’d been talking to later, when they were both calmer. He forced his mind away from the matter, onto more practical things.

Until then, he needed to set out the meals in the fridge. Ms Friday, his housekeeper, had been more than willing to make enough food for Tony and his new houseguest. She was kind enough to make sure they were ready to eat, so Tony didn’t have to do any work, and would be back in two days to restock the fridge and pantry, and clean the lower floors of the house.

He got up and pulled open the door to the kitchen. At least with Peter gone so long, he’d managed to lock up all the rooms that needed to be locked. With a few on the very top floors, the locks were too old and rusty to actually allow the key to turn in them. But Tony had bolted them shut, meaning that whilst they were openable, it would take an inordinate amount of effort to get past them.

He planned to recheck them every day or so. In the manor, locked doors had a habit of not staying locked, and opening themselves. He’d written it off long ago as the old locks not cooperating after years of use. Still, his throat tightened at the thought, as his old worry was reignited with a tiny spark of doubt.

\---

Dinner was awkward. Not a word was said, asides from a timid request for the salt.

Tony was planning to at least try and make conversation, but after their fight, he wanted to give Peter the choice of whether they’d talk. The teenager kept his eyes fixed firmly in his lap, eating his food slowly. Even when he asked for the salt shaker, he had adamantly avoided eye contact.

Tony was beginning to kind of wish he hadn't snapped at the Peter. He seemed like he was really taking it to heart. Before the argument, the kid seemed like he was warming to Tony, and now he couldn’t even meet his gaze.

Tony regretted the way he’d approached the situation, but Peter had to realise that his heart was in the right place, that he was just scared.

On top of it all, the seating arrangement at dinner was more than a little troubling. When he’d first called for dinner, Peter had sat down in his usual seat - the one to the left of the head of the table.

It was the only one he ever sat in, and was well-worn from years of eating there. All the other chairs’ seats were slightly too firm to be comfortable, except the chair at the head of the table, which was also worn enough to be pleasant.

Tony couldn’t bring himself to even consider sitting there.

He’d taken a seat opposite Peter, on the right, and tried to ignore the discomfort.

Eventually, they both finished their meals. Tony sits there, at a loss for what to do.

After dinner, he’ll usually just relax and finish the newspaper he started in the morning (strangely, he never seemed to finish it when it first arrived). Then he’d pour himself a glass of wine if he was having a good day, or wine and a thimble of scotch if he was having a bad one. However, recently, he found himself bypassing both, preferring to nurse a bottle of whisky in his room.

The whisky was out of the question. He had to draw the line, and today had been going well in terms of drinking. He wasn’t going to spoil it with scotch or wine either, knowing what that would lead to. He could have still read the paper - if his chair wasn’t taken.

Peter seemed unsure of what to do either. Tony wasn’t going to kick him out of the room for a _chair_ , but it occurred to him that the boy might be waiting for permission to leave; but, if he wasn’t waiting, then granting permission would be like telling him to get lost. Tony was overthinking it, he knew, but the sting from their fight was still fresh, and he didn’t want to make it any worse.

Peter eventually broke the silence that had been crushing them since the dinner began.

“I should be getting to bed.”

“Yeah?” Tony said, a little too loudly. “Sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Peter pushed out his chair and left the room quietly. He was still avoiding eye contact.

Tony watched him go, guilt heavy in his mind. He’d have to make it up to the kid in the morning.

He listened to the sound of the Peter thumping up the stairs, before groaning in remembrance. He still hadn’t sorted out the boy’s permanent bedroom. He had a lot to do tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long oh my god,, I have the worst motiv and studies are ruining my life, but lol leave a comment or kudos please, i'm trying my best but they'd help heh
> 
> Edit: aaaah it’s 21/05/19 and ik it seems like this is abandoned BUT!!! It is not!!! My exams finish 17/06/19 and I S2G! I start writing again & update then! This is not even close to being over, yall hv no idea what’s coming it’s gonna be craaazy, strap yourselves in :))   
> Also - I’m also breaking my rule & am replying to some comments because god knows I owe yall a fucking apology skjskssj


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